


Rekindling

by Liara_90



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Awkward Flirting, F/M, Fluff, Getting Back Together, Halo 4, Inspired by Fanfiction, Inspired by Music, One Shot, POV Third Person, Video & Computer Games, Wordcount: 5.000-10.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-03
Updated: 2018-02-03
Packaged: 2019-03-13 02:08:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13560438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liara_90/pseuds/Liara_90
Summary: After so many months away, Carolina is picked up at the airport by York. Both are left wondering about what's changed, whether they can just pick up where they left off.It's been a damn long time.





	Rekindling

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Throw Away the Key](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6826939) by [Legendaerie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Legendaerie/pseuds/Legendaerie). 



> While this was immensely inspired by [_Throw Away the Key_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6826939?view_full_work=true), from which it borrows a few elements, the characterizations/AU-specific-backstories are my own. Parts of the story were also inspired by Jeff Williams’ “[Come on Carolina](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IMLVykgXtGU)”.

York had been waiting for _ever_ , which made almost missing her that much worse.

He’d left early in the hopes of beating traffic, the tens of thousands of commuters fleeing the city before the long weekend. Nothing gave him a headache quite like stop-and-go traffic, so he had set off for the airport well before her flight had even entered American airspace.

But he’d obviously done something to piss off Lady Luck on that particular afternoon, since snowsqualls and an overturned K-whopper had conspired to keep him parked on the freeway. He’d paid a king’s ransom at the airport’s short-term parking lot, only to find that the plane he was tracking - RT 636, inbound from across the Atlantic - was having no better luck. The heavy winds had made a mess of the airport’s runways, and the arriving aircraft had had to do a go-around, adding forty-five minutes to its sojourn.

So York had been slumped against a pillar in the Arrivals lounge, unthinkingly thumbing his phone, his ears tuned to the same local news stories replaying themselves _ad nauseum_ on a nearby screen. Trying to figure out when the plane had landed, how long it took to reach the gate, to disembark, to clear Customs, to collect baggage. It wasn’t like he had any real numbers to go off, just guesstimates from his imagination. But he knew it was _too damn long_.

Which was why a quiet _hey there_ scared the bejeezus out of him.

“Hey there,” Carolina said, standing not two feet in front of him.

“ _Gah-whoa-ah_ ,” York stammered back, suddenly finding himself juggling the phone which had flown from his fingers with the shock.

Carolina raised a thin eyebrow, a wry smile on her face when York finally collected himself. “Didn’t mean to sneak up on you,” she eventually added, though there wasn’t much apology in her voice.

York flashed a self-deprecating grin. “Just a little distracted,” he offered, pocketing the phone. “Welcome back.”

His hands empty, York was halfway to gesturing for a hug before he caught himself, forearms arresting themselves mid-motion. Carolina wasn’t big on Public Displays of Affection at the best of times, so they probably weren’t going to be reenacting the opening of _Love Actually_ anytime soon.

“...Thanks,” Carolina belatedly replied, bobbing her head gently in acknowledgement. “It’s good to be back.” The phrase felt formulaic on her tongue, but at least the sentiment was right, even if her delivery wasn’t.

The two stood in silence for a few seconds, as if unsure on how to proceed. Dozens of travelers buzzed all about them, pushing trolleys or wheeling bags or wrangling wayward children.

“Here-” York extended a hand “-let me grab one of your bags.”

Carolina was encumbered not unlike a beast of burden, a rarity for a woman who usually travelled with little more than toothbrush. An oversized backpack poked out from behind her hair, its broad straps visibly digging into her cotton hoodie. A well-worn duffel bag was clutched in her left hand, and an even larger duffel was slung over the opposite arm. York was fairly confident he hadn’t hauled that much shit since Basic.

After only a slight hesitation, Carolina handed the smaller of the two duffels to York, her body language making it clear that she would be parting with nothing more. York tried not to act like was questioning his manliness.

“C’mon, let’s get back to my car. Before I have to declare bankruptcy.”

York turned and began walking towards the parking lot, with Carolina falling into step on his right a moment later. He suppressed a smile. _That_ , at least, hadn’t changed. She could’ve chosen either side, but she hadn’t walked on his left for a decade, as far as York could recollect. Staying in the field of vision of his _good_ eye was as unconscious to her as breathing.

“Still with this thing?” Carolina asked, as York swung open the trunk of his car. ‘ _This thing_ ’ being an off-white Chevy Lumina that had been ugly when it first hit the street during the _first_ Bush Presidency.

“Hey, be nice to Delta,” York chastised, rearranging a few pieces of his junk to make room for Carolina’s baggage. Her backpack ended up being flung across the back seats, despite his Tetris-esque efforts. “I know exactly how he handles, and that counts for a lot when you’ve got one good eye.”

Carolina snorted a little derisively, sliding herself into the shotgun position. To his credit, York obviously treated “ _him_ ” well, right down to the ‘desert rose’ air freshener dangling from the rear-view mirror. No trash on the floor or stains on the seats. Hell, even in winter the windows were clear.

“Thanks again for picking me up,” Carolina said, as York steered them onto a highway on-ramp. Weather and traffic had both cleared since his arrival, and driving _into_ the city was always easier on Fridays.

“Don’t mention it,” he replied, making a vague gesture with his hand. The Chevy soon reached highway speeds, barreling down a stretch of pavement punctuated only by strobes of high-mast lights.

“This is probably a dumb question,” he began, glancing over his shoulder as he changed lanes (coincidentally away from Carolina), “but am I driving to my place or yours?”

He completed the lane-change, but Carolina still hadn’t answered. Which meant he actually had to glance to his right, to try to decipher that sphyxian expression on her face. Her eyes were actually downcast, towards her lap, where she was fiddling with something.

_Clink_ … _snap_ ….. _Clink_ ….. _snap…._

“I haven’t seen your new place,” Carolina finally answered, shuffling her weight on the seat. “If you don’t mind me crashing.”

“Why would I…” York clued in to the nervousness in Carolina’s tone a second too late. With his good eye he saw the hesitancy on her face, fears that swirled just beneath the surface. Keeping one hand on the wheel, he reached from his seat to hers, finding her hand. She let him grab it, entwining her fingers.

It had been a long time since they’d done that: a year and a bit, though York had long stopped counting the days. Communication had hardly been as constant as they’d promised, even when it _was_ within their control. At first it’d seemed like they’d Skyped everyday, but such a schedule had proved impossible to maintain. Time zones and operational security had conspired against them, a pox of missed calls and buried emails. The messages had never _quite_ stopped, but only just.

They’d parted on ambiguous terms, all those many moons ago. It hadn’t been a break-up - certainly not explicitly - but it easily _could_ have been interpreted that way, had either of them wanted to. Neither had had any experience with long-distance relationships, and the understanding - while unspoken - had been mutual. That nobody would go around screaming _cheater_ if beds were warmed _in absentia_ , that there would be no begrudgement for wandering hearts.

Small talk filled the air for the rest of the drive into the city, a style of conversation neither had ever been good at. Dancing around questions neither really wanted to ask.

“So… here it is…” York declared, pulling up to a curb in a quiet residential neighborhood. Carolina blinked twice, having been completely convinced that York was just taking a detour to another part of town.

“You bought a house?” she asked, unable to keep the surprise entirely from her voice. She unfastened her seatbelt and stepped out of Delta, eyes sweeping over a Tudor-style domicile with a wide lawn, dotted with garden gnomes half-buried in snow. “How?”

“Oh, you know, turns out I had this Great-Aunt from Luxembourg who left me a huge inheritance.” York killed the ignition and followed her out, slamming the door shut with a _thud_. “Or was it Lichtenstein? God bless your soul, Great-Aunt Martha.”

“You’re renting a room?” Carolina induced, glancing at the man over her shoulder.

“I am renting a _basement_ ,” York corrected, triumphantly. He beat Carolina to the trunk, and thus claimed the heavier duffel as his own. “Let me give you the tour.”

Carolina couldn’t quite keep herself from smiling as she followed York, trekking across an unshoveled side path that lead to a well-concealed lateral entrance. York spent a good half-minute struggling with the lock, finally opening the door with a beefy shoulder-check. He stepped inside the blacked-out basement, holding the door open with a melodramatically chivalrous bow.

“Okay, please, wipe your feet on the mat, I try not to drag any snow in,” York requested, unthinkingly adopting a boisterous persona that was a poor man’s _MTV Cribs_. “Alright alright, we’ve got a total of two-hundred and fifty square feet to cover, so to try to pace yourself, drink lots of fluids, check for heat stroke.” York flicked a switch, illuminating his domicile with a row of incandescent bulbs. “This here is the living room, which is also the dining room. And the bedroom. Hence the bed.”

Carolina set her set down her backpack on York’s floor, carefully not to disturb the various nick-nacks that seemed to litter the place. “It seems very… _efficient_.”

“I knew you’d approve,” York replied, his sardonic tone making it clear he hadn’t missed her meaning. “Here, it folds up into a couch if I… just…” Various fabrics were thrown to the floor, allowing for the bed to be collapsed. “... _There_.”

Carolina took a few more steps inside, prompting York to continue the tour. “Uhh… bathroom’s over there, if you need it. Bath & shower. Water pressure’s shit but at least it’s hot.” He ducked into the room and yanked the toilet seat down. “That door leads to a washer/dryer, so I save big on coin laundries. Also, the staircase up to the main floor. Hence the deadbolt.”

“What, don’t trust your landlord?” Carolina teased, even as her eyes swept the room. She’d spent too many months in too dangerous conditions not to instinctively wonder how defensible a structure was, where were the escape routes and the lines of fire...

(At least… that was what she _told_ herself she was looking for. _Definitely_ not feminine undergarments and torn Trojan wrappers.)

“Land _lady_. And _no_ , absolutely not. She’s like a four-time widow who would probably kill me in my sleep if I gave her the chance.” Carolina grinned at whatever story was behind that. “Normally I’d ask you to keep your voice down, but she’s visiting friends in Key Largo right now. Probably comparning kill counts.”

“Poor Florida,” Carolina replied.

“I’ll say.” York made his way to the small kitchen, which to its credit had neither mould nor odour. The fridge opened with a loud tug on the seal. “Can I get you anything? I got… water… apple juice… milk - if you like to live dangerously - beer…” His voice was muffled slightly as he ducked further in to the fridge. “More beer… hard cider... “

“Trying to liquor me up, York?” Carolina asked, rolling her neck to get out the worst of the kinks. York’s eyes peaked above the edge of the fridge door, scowling at the insinuation. “Lone Star, if you have it.”

“Indeed I do,” York confirmed, lobbing a white-and-red tall boy her way. She snatched it out of the air, even with the awkward angle, because that’s what happened when you were like the ninety-nine-and-a-half percentile for hand-eye coordination. She snapped it open-

-”ah, shit!” Foam and spray erupted volcanically, seeping into the carpet underfoot. “Got a paper towel?”

York batted the request away, snagging a PBR for himself. “Don’t worry about it. That’s, like, not in the Top 10 worst stains this carpet has.”

They locked eyes.

“Not, y’know, like there’s _blood_ or anything…”

Carolina took a noisy slurp of foam. “That was the _second_ bodily fluid I was going to ask about.”

“ _Oh_. Oh, nothing like that,” York answered, taking a much-smoother sip of his own can. “Just don’t go through my laundry hamper.”

“What, no orgies while I was away?” She took a few steps towards him, her bare soles finding the cool linoleum of the kitchen. York inched back by a matter of degrees, giving Carolina a bit of space. Her eyes gave the kitchen a final, furtive sweep, as if expecting to find a hooker hidden in the pantry.

York let out a breath through his nose. “Not unless you count having Pornhub open on two screens at once,” he replied. He meant it to sound flippant, but it came off more sheepishly than he’d intended. Blasé had never been his forte.

Carolina’s shoulders loosened, only for her face to contort by degrees. She’d promised herself she wouldn’t _care_ if York was unfai- if York moved on while she was away. _Hell_ , she’d told herself she’d be _happy_ for him if he did. And yet here she pettily was, trying to ferret out a secret like this was fucking _high school_.

She straightened up. “I’m sorry, York. That was… _intrusive_.”

He tapped her shoulder with the base of his beer can. She felt a metallic chill, even through her hoodie. “Don’t worry about it, Carolina. You just want to know where things stand.” He shrugged his shoulders, expressively, his eyes falling to his feet. “I guess I do, too.”

Time changed people, they both knew that all-too-well. Sometimes dramatically, but usually just subtly, that illusory sense of self being edited a little with each passing day, each new experience. And they’d been living very different lives, this past year, adopting new and unfamiliar existences. It was delusional to think that everything would just _click_ back into place like they were well-maintained machines…

“...Nothing _has_ to change, does it?” Carolina broached, her weight shifting from foot to foot.

“Things’ve already changed,” York replied, slipping into that sagely tone of his. “You’ve been travelling.” (That had always been their euphemism for her unorthodox line of work). “I got a new job. Got fired from that job. Got another job. Got fired from - _you get the picture_.” Carolina smiled softly, drawing her arms around her torso. “But I guess what matters is… _does_ it matter?”

“Does it?” Carolina asked again, her beer slowly warming in her hand.

York set his can down on the small allotment of kitchen counter. “Only if you want it to.”

He leaned further back onto the counter, good eye and bad taking her in.

“I don’t know… I don’t know if I can make that kind of decision…” Carolina began, and York’s heart sunk. “...on an empty stomach.”

It took York a good five seconds to figure out what she meant.

“That… _that_ I can help with,” he hurried replied, almost tripping over his words and his thoughts. He quickly spun around, throwing open about four cupboards at once. “How hungry are you? Do you want something, like, _now_?” He crouched low, the clanging sounds of cookware suddenly filling Carolina’s ears. “There’re some takeout menus next to the junk mail, if you want something like that. There’s this Thai place that does fifteen-minute delivery…”

He trailed off, realizing he should probably wait for some actual input.

“I can wait a bit.” _Or, you know, over a year in the middle of a godforsaken desert._ “And I’m not picky.”

“Sure you aren’t,” York replied with a smile, eliciting long-buried memories about the culinary validity of anchovies. “Well, if you can give this stove time to heat up, maybe I can pleasantly surprise you.” He yanked a cookbook off one of the cupboard shelves, its spine hopelessly creased. “Just… let me get this started.”

“I’ll leave you to it, Iron Chef,” Carolina said, inclining her head.

She withdrew to the living/dining/bedroom, half her mind still on the sounds of York in the kitchen, rummaging about for God knows what. She took a seat on the recently-reconverted couch, sinking slightly into its cushioning. She still hadn’t shaken the feeling of being a guest in another person’s home, even if that ‘ _another_ ’ had been her Significant Other. She recognized a lot of the items within it, trinkets from his last pad, books and clothes and that old lockpick set. She was torn between a desire to learn more and a desire not to be a snoop, even if by all rights she was entitled to look around. The latter desire won out, if only as a way to prove something pointless to herself.

“Sorry about that,” York said, ducking back into the room, wiping his hands on a faded terry-cloth towel. “I should have pre-heated that before I went to the airport.”

“But you didn’t know I was coming back,” Carolina replied, scooching over on the couch to give York a proper seat.

“...No,” York agreed after a long pause, tossing the cloth into the hamper. He dropped onto the couch beside Carolina, his weight jostling her. “But I guess I hoped.”

“I can drink to that,” Carolina agreed, raising her beer to her lips. “So what now?”

“Well, my oven’s shit, so it’s going to take it some time to get to 400°.” He reached over his side of the couch, grabbing an oversized remote. “But in the meantime we have-”

Female vocals immediately filled the basement, pumped through unseen speakers. Visuals accompanied it a moment later, a celestial landscape appearing on a flat-screen TV.

“ _Halo_?”

“ _Halo_ 4,” York corrected, a touch pedantically, hurriedly turning down the volume of the title screen’s track. “Bet they don’t have _this_ in whatever top-secret military base you were at.”

“Actually, they did,” Carolina corrected, watching York’s whole body sink. Because when you were stuck in an isolated outpost in the middle of _literally_ nowhere, there were few better time-killers than video games. Carolina doubted there was an American base in the world that didn’t have at least a console and four controllers. “I may have played a few matches.” Actually _quite_ a few matches, because the only other games in the library had all been _Call of Duty_ installments, and it had always weirded her out too much to play a fantasized recreation of her day job.

“Well, then, I guess I can skip the tutorial,” York replied, just a little huffily. He handed her a controller, then snatched it away. “Y button on that’s a little sticky. Take this one.”

The molded plastic controller fit comfortably in her hands, the ring around the Guide button designating her as Player 2. York grabbed his own controller, disconnecting a headset wired to the audio jack. She watched as York quickly navigated his way through the menus, fingers flicking unthinkingly. “You wanna sign in?”

“Yeah.” She quickly flicked through a few screens, selecting her gamertag from the list. York evidently hadn’t changed consoles while she was away. Her avatar - bedecked in blue MJOLNIR armor - soon greeted her like an old friend.

“You ever going to tell me what the story with that nick?” York asked, as Carolina’s gamertag flashed across the lower-third of the screen 

_Und1r3ct3d has 1 friend online_

“ _That_ , York, has not changed,” Carolina confirmed, with a small smile.

York grunted distantly in acknowledgement, customizing the last of the match settings. Carolina saw that he’d selected Haven as their multiplayer map, the go-to close-quarters battlefield. “Ready?” he asked, a wordless nod granting him permission to launch the game.

As the temperature in the oven slowly crept upwards, the countdown timer reached _three...two...one… zero_.

_On a colossal Forerunner superstructure, floating in the heavens above Requiem, two Spartan supersoldiers begin creeping towards one another._

“So…” Carolina began, inching closer towards York, “how’d you get this TV? And don’t tell me it was some European relation.”

The screen _was_ generous, at least for what either of them had been used to; Carolina estimated it was 72” of crystal-clear display. Off in the distance, she spotted the tan Mark VI armor of York’s avatar, and she barely resisted the urge to squeeze the trigger immediately.

“A guy from work was moving to Wyoming,” York answered, keeping his eyes on his half of the television. Playing split-screen necessitated some kind of an honor system, and it was jarring after gaming for so many nights with teenage strangers over Xbox Live. “I bought it off him for basically peanuts.”

“Good steal,” Carolina replied, bumping his shoulder with hers.

The York of the real-world glanced over at the woman beside him on the couch. The York fighting for his life on Haven suddenly found himself face-down in a pool of his own bodily fluids.

“First blood!” Carolina declared, triumphantly, as York’s character was respawned. Her whole body actually bounced with excitement.

He was still looking at her as his character popped back into existence. The way her eyes widened and her tongue licked her lips, every muscle taut. He doubted he’d ever seen Carolina more enthused, more _alive_ , then when she was competing for something.

...His thumbs flew over the sticks, commanding a cautious retreat...

Sometimes it was _problematic_. Competitiveness bled into obsessiveness all-too-easily. It was so easy to get wrapped up trying to get the most points or the highest rank, and damn-near everything these days seemed to be encouraging that. It was a drive that had caused Carolina to excel, to surpass her peers in school and in the field. In another life, she could easily have been an Olympian, bagging gold medals in one city after another. She could probably be an Olympian in _this_ life, York corrected, were her energies not channelled elsewhere.

_They exchange a few rounds, but York dances nimbly around the map, his shields recharging before Carolina can close in for the kill._

Sometimes it was _worrying_ , when she ran until she puked, pumped weights in the gym into the wee hours of the night. Defined herself against others, blocking out the world. It was a recipe for burnout, for self-destruction.

_The teal-toned Spartan rushes York. He fires, but it’s not enough to save him from a bloody bludgeoning._

“Two-nil,” Carolina teased, rubbing against his shoulder again. “Feeling a little rusty, are you?”

And sometimes it wasn’t problematic at all.

“Don’t get too cocky,” York replied, wiping a palm on his pants. “I just wanted to give you some time to remember the controls.”

“Bullshit,” she replied, though the words were friendly. York belatedly realizes that she was still leaning on him, her Spartan standing idle on the screen. “What do I get if I win, then?”

“Hm?” York glanced at Carolina, still slouched sideways, still against him. For a second, he forgot what year it was, that they had spent so many months apart. They were just two friends sharing a couch, reveling in each other’s company in the quiet hours of the night. “What do you _get_?”

“Just want to see if you’ll put your money where your mouth is,” Carolina replied, tucking her bare feet up onto the couch-bed. “Since you’re _going easy on me_ , it should be a safe bet.”

The clock on their virtual battlefield continued ticking downwards.

“Well, let’s see…” York mused aloud. “I don’t have any cash. I’m already making you dinner. _And_ giving you a place to crash.”

His houseguest snorted. “Yes, you’re such a gentleman. Pick a bet,” Carolina demanded. York noticed that she was _still_ leaning against his torso. And that, simply put, was _not_ the proper posture for a competitive gamer.

Somewhere in his head, he rolled a die.

“Okay then,” he began, with the gentleness of a man sliding a pick into a lock, feeling for the weight of every pin. “Every time you die, you take off a piece of clothing.”

For a second, only the simulated winds of Requiem filled the living room.

“Alright, hotshot,” Carolina declared, melodramatically shoving herself off of York. “I hope your neighbors don’t mind you cooking naked.”

“So it’s a deal?” York asked, seeking explicit verbal confirmation.

“Deal.”

_A plasma grenade affixes itself to the back of a Spartan’s skull, bonding inseparably with her Rogue helmet._

“There's somethin' on your head,” York said with a grin, watching the bottom half of the screen flash bright blue.

Carolina growled. “So that’s how it’s going to be.”

“Well…” York retreated to his side of the couch. “I assume you’ll be a few pounds lighter.”

Carolina gritted her teeth, but her word was gold. She unzipped the hoodie she’d arrived in, dropping it unceremoniously to the floor, exposing a black tank top beneath. Only the threat of imminent nudity kept York from ogling her biceps.

The banter died down pretty quickly, the two gamers suddenly paying much more attention to the screen. It wasn’t like York was all that worried about losing his own bet, but he couldn’t exactly half-ass it now, could he? They darted across the map for the better part of two minutes, zigging and zagging in and out of engagements.

_An incoming grenade, thrown from an improbable angle, lowers his shields to the brink of failure. He retreats, but this time with insufficient haste to outrace the bullets._

Carolina nudged his foot with hers. “Hop to it.” York rolled his eyes. He pulled off his own sweater, overhead, revealing a yellow t-shirt underneath that had gone through a few too many spin cycles.

“So, you’ve been working out?”

“You know me, regular gym rat,” York lied, hunching forward in such a way as to dramatically flex his own biceps, his throat tightening with the effort. He actually _did_ work out, if with nowhere near the regularity his Dakotan trainers would’ve preferred. His still jogged almost daily, though, which had to count for something.

It certainly did in Carolia’s books.

* * *

_Bullets whiz through air, depleting shields and health. York tosses an M9 High-Explosive Dual-Purpose grenade into the wall in front of him, the errant orb rebounding at precisely the right time and angle to catch the aquamarine Space Marine in hot pursuit._

“That was pure luck,” Carolina griped, as she yanked her tank top off.

“Hey, I’d rather be lucky than good any day,” he easily fired back, reclining further to his side of the couch. Carolina’s sports bra fit her _so_ damn perfectly, like she’d walked right out a Nike commercial.

“You usually are.” Her abdominals were the whole reason people started P90X to begin with. They looked like they had the stopping power of Kevlar.

Only the sound of Carolina’s joysticks being flicked forced him to tear his eyes away.

* * *

_He doesn’t even see her this time, not even the shimmering reflection of her rifle’s scope. Zoomed in at nine-times magnification, Carolina spends the better part of a minute stalking her quarry, ending his existence with a single 14.5 x 114mm round through his visor._

“Nice shot,” York complimented, trying his best to sound magnanimous.

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” Carolina chided, brushing wayward strands of red from her face. York chuckled weakly at that, slipping his shirt over his head-

-“‘ _aaaarg_ ’,” cried out York’s Spartan avatar, as a grenade sent it flying over the edge of the map.

“That was dirty,” York grumbled, having left his controller perilously unattended as he disrobed. Something Carolina had taken advantage of to race to his spawn point with murder on her mind. “Here I thought you wanted to enjoy the show.”

Carolina snorted, though this time her fingers really did stop twiddling, as York’s striptease suddenly had an encore. He stood up from the couch, giving Carolina a frontal view as he unbuttoned his jeans. He held the pose long enough to elicit an encouraging smile, before letting the denim pants join his shirt in a puddle by his feet.

“You really _have_ been working out,” Carolina noted, with renewed emphasis, and York tugged his feet free, leaving him in nothing but a pair of Calvin Klein briefs. She was a bit more shameless in her ogling, eyes sweeping appreciatively from his calves to his pecs.

“Really? I hadn’t noticed much difference,” York replied, making a show of folding his hands behind his head and _stretching_. Carolina stifled a giggle. He wasn’t going to be wresting the Mr. Universe title from Arnie anytime soon, but he was undeniably toned, the kind of athletic physique she associated with soldiers and soccer stars.

York dropped back to the couch, consciously choosing a spot a few inches closer to Carolina. Their now-bared shoulders brushed, the contact electrifying York as much as his first pubescent kiss had.

“Guess we know who wears the pants in the relationship,” Carolina said with a smirk, as York picked up his controller.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” York retorted, his bare knees bouncing slightly.

In the kitchen, the oven reached 400° F. This went unacknowledged by all involved.

* * *

_The next kill takes almost two minutes to claim, an extended game of cat-and-mouse. A game that suddenly comes to an end when Carolina rounds a corner, with no clue as to the coordinates of her quarry, only to be greeted with a shotgun-melee combo at point-blank range._

“Oh you fucking... camping…” Carolina might well have thrown the controller had she actually owned it.

“It’s a legitimate strategy,” York said, his words prickling needles.

But a kill was a kill, and Carolina slipped out of her pants without getting up. _Fuck_ she could kill with those legs. “Hope you don’t mind,” she teased in a dry tone, tucking her feet back up on the couch. “Haven’t really been shaving them.” This time York felt her heat on his thigh, and Mr. Klein did not provide him with much camouflage for his reaction.

“Because, you know, I was _always_ on your case about that.” Their controllers hung limply in their hands, the guns of their Spartans pointed at walls. York shuffled his weight a little, and Carolina felt something electric sweep her limbs. “Lord help ya if you weren’t dolled up for me.”

Carolina’s smile was small but warm. She’d missed these nights, these evenings filled with easy silliness. The way he could always make her feel perfectly at ease - at _home_ \- wherever they’d relocated. How easily he’d let her slip back into this rhythm, even after so many nights alone.

Duty had called, and she had answered, but there was no pretending that that hadn’t had a cost. Hadn’t left a hole she was only beginning to fill in again…

“Next kill wins?” she offered.

York raised an eyebrow at her magnacity. Assuming she counted the top and the bottom separately, Carolina had one-garment lead on him, and it wasn’t exactly like her to suggest changing the rules mid-game, and _certainly_ not when she had the advantage.

Then he remembered that there were more important things to _both_ of them than a scoreboard on a second-hand Xbox.

“Sure.”

* * *

_It still won’t be easy. Both Spartans take conservative tacts, scouring the arena for advantages in weapons and vantage. On two occasions they run into each other, and on both occasions the bouts are insufficiently fatal._

_For a third time, they meet in the middle, both knowing that this will be their last encounter. Both are out of grenades, and low on ammunition for any gun worth wielding._

_Carolina moves first, peeking around a polygonal corner, her BR85 Heavy Barrel Service Rifle firing a string of three-round bursts. Most of the shots miss - a credit to her adversary’s wily acrobatics - but a few hit, clipping the Spartan’s side and chipping away at his shields._

_York curses, his own MA5D assault rifle suddenly seemingly woefully inadequate for the homicidal task at hand. Nevertheless, he readies the firearm, knowing he has but one shot to spray. With a wordless prayer to a god he doesn’t quite believe in, York leaps high in the air._

_His finger is depressing the trigger, sending bullets flying to a target mere meters away. Carolina strafes right - his_ left _\- returning fire with barely a millisecond’s delay. Their shields flash, then vanish._

_Blood sprays-_

* * *

The screen went black.

“Aaaarg!” Carolina shouted, her voice downright primal, as York’s screen blinked off with a _hum_. She instinctively looked down at her controller, only for the absence of any lights to confirm that the Xbox itself was off, too.

Actually, the whole room was looking pretty dark, now that she noticed it... 

“Dammit,” York swore, sounding more dejected than outraged. “Sorry, I think the power died.”

“What gave it away?” Carolina asked, darkly. “Your landlady didn’t pay the utilities?”

“No, it’s the stupid street.” York awkwardly clambored to his feet, walking over to a wall so he could peer out the window. “ _Yup_ , neighbor’s are out, too. Damn. Having tree-lined roads sure is pretty, but we can’t have snow without a branch taking out a power line somewhere.”

“Ah. That sucks,” Carolina replied, as her brain struggled to assure her gut that York hadn’t just killed the power to keep from losing. “Do we call it a tie?”

Carolina knew York was grinning, even if she could barely see him. His basement suite didn’t have much in the way of natural lighting. “ _Call it a tie_. Who are you, and what did you do with the real Carolina?”

The Real Carolina leaned back on the couch, throwing her legs up across as the cushion York had just been occupying. She’d forgotten just how good it could feel to crash on a couch. Particularly one warmed with his bodily heat.

“I’ve got some candles, hang on.” York said, circling back her direction.

“No flashlight?” Carolina asked, as she listened to York slide a drawer out of an old lady’s wooden cabinet.

“In the kitchen. Which I am _not_ going to walk into blindly.” Carolina belatedly realizes she could have just grabbed her smartphone, but it was in her pants, which she’d kicked out of reach, and that was suddenly as far away as Marathon. “Here we are…”

York triumphantly extracted two small candles, little red stubs that were far better for scent than illumination. Carolina watched his shadowy form set the two on a side table, just beside the couch. “Okay, I’ve got one of those gas lighters in the kitchen, just gimme a sec. If you hear screams, I just stabbed myself on a knife.”

“No need,” Carolina interjected, catching York by the wrist before he could wander into the apparently-perilous kitchenette.

York looked down, and saw that Carolina had his lighter - had the lighter he’d _given her_ \- in her free hand. She was stretching backwards, like a yogi doing a bridge, reaching towards the candles York had set down beside her armrest.

_Clink_ … tch…. _Snap._

“There.” Two small flames came to life, dancing on the ends of their wicks. She inhaled through her nose. “These smell nice, York. Didn’t take you for the ‘ _scented candle_ ’ type.”

“I’ve got a lotta layers, Carolina. Just a complicated kinda guy.” She still hadn’t let go of his hand, so he began drawing back towards her, feeling the gentle _tug_ as he approached the couch.

“And a terrible liar.” 

“They came with the place,” York confessed, as Carolina guided him to lie parallel to her. “Last tenant left in a hurry, as I understand.”

“ _Hmm_.” Carolina squirmed a little on the couch. It was just a hair too tight for the two of them to lie on it. At least, it was too _narrow_. If one occupant was atop the other... “So I take it the heat goes out with the power?”

“Guessed it in one,” York confirmed. Carolina flicked their lighter open again, quantums of heat radiating from its butane flame. The light was bright enough to illuminate just the two of them, and just their faces, casting them in a warm glow. “Maybe your place would’ve been a better idea, after all.”

The flame wavered between their eyes. Carolina stared into York’s, at the streaks of his scars etched into his skin. Her own eyes shimmered in the light of the flames, her chest rising and falling.

“It’s fine here,” Carolina replied. “We just have to figure out a way to keep warm for the night. Until whenever the repair crews get out here.”

York smiled, cautiously lowering himself towards the flame she was enkindling. “I’ve got an idea or two,” he mused, hearing Carolina’s toes curling into the cushioning. “Even better than naked _Halo 4_ … _If_ you think you can keep up.”

Carolina exhaled from her mouth, blowing a few short hairs on his head. “ _Try me_.”

She clicked the lighter shut, and tossed it aside.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic for _Red vs. Blue_ , so thoughts, feedback, comments, suggestions are all particularly welcome. What worked, what didn’t. Plot, characterization, writing style, ‘voices’. Critical feedback is the only way I’ll ever improve, and even a single sentence can light up my day for weeks. Feel free to hit me up on [reddit](https://www.reddit.com/user/pvoberstein/) or [Tumblr](http://www.pvoberstein.tumblr.com/), too.
> 
> So, yeah. Yorkalina Modern AU one-shot. I’ve got ideas for more _RvB_ fics, but this one came pretty easily, and I figured I should do some warm-up stretches before trying to write something canon-compliant in the PFC-era, or whatnot. My apologies for what I’m sure are any number of tropes and cliches for these two. Hopefully someone out there enjoys this.
> 
> In addition to the work of Legendaerie, which so inspired me, I need to give a special shout-out to [mantisbelle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mantisbelle/pseuds/mantisbelle/works?fandom_id=144615) for pointing out [the drinks the Freelancers are imbibing](https://locus-i-am.tumblr.com/post/161603888778/how-about-those-drunklancers-or-the-post-where-i) in “[Battlescars](http://rvb.wikia.com/wiki/Battlescars)”. Also, it’s been forever since I played _Halo 4_ (and I’ve probably played the multiplayer for a few hours at most) so my apologies if any artistic liberties were unintentionally taken.
> 
> If anyone’s wondering, the phrase “ _the aquamarine Space Marine_ ” is the bit I am most proud/ashamed of.


End file.
